The Practical Christine
by Ravey
Summary: This is a whatif scenario of Phantom, taken mostly from the book but twisted a bit, and changing the events of what actually happened at that Parisian Opera House. Told in first person from Christines POV, this is my very first fanfic so be gentle!


I believe some sort of explanation is neccesary for those who are about to read this. I have made my Christine to be a lot less silly and gullible, for a good reason before you all start throwing stones. This is a what-if scenario, adding a little twist to what went on at the Opera House. I wont tell you what the twist is, so if you're interested you're going to have to read it.

Ravey

I remember it so clearly, the day my father died. Every moment etched clearly in my memory, it remains eternally fresh in my mind. For how could I forget the day my heart died in my chest? I became a walking corpse, taking pleasure in nothing. Sunlight seemed dull in my eyes, laughter grated on my ears. I wanted nothing of human companionship, of life. Yet I had made a promise to my father, a promise to sing. He had promised to send me an angel to watch over me. An angel down from Heaven to both guard and guide me. An Angel of Music to raise my voice to dazzling heights and teach me to sing as I'd never sung before. I was too old for fairy tales, I knew that. But sometimes that foolish little daydream was the only thing that kept me going every day. I had this ridiculous idea planted in my brain that id I kept my promise to my father, then God would see fit to let my father keep his to me. And who better to send back as an Angel of Music than my wonderful, talented father. That foolish little hope kept me alive, helped me get up in the mornings when all I wanted to do was lay down and die. I managed to join the ballet corps at the Paris Opera house under the tutelage of a Mme Giry, a kind woman who looked after me like I was her own.

I became friends with her daughter, Meg Giry, a bright and cheerful girl with quite a lively imagination judging from the stories she was fond of telling. She would tell me fearsome tales of the Ghost that haunted the Opera, who was indeed blamed for every little thing that happened in the theatre. Naturally I scoffed at such ridiculous superstition; the Angel of Music was one thing, a Ghost who spent its time hiding the hairbrushes of little girls quite another. I didn't say so to Meg of course, she would have been quite hurt to think that I didn't believe her stories, all the other girls did and she was quite the little ringleader. She had always been a good friend though, understanding at my pain, she too had lost a father, though I don't think she quite understood why I missed him so much. She still had her mother I suppose. I was alone in the world...but it was so much more than that. He had been so much more than that. I had lost my dearest friend, not just my father. How could I delight in something when he wasn't there to share in it?

I was in the ballet corps, and I became an...adequate dancer. I was never going to be outstanding, no one would ever pick me out of a crowd. I didn't sing. I convinced myself that dancing was music, was close enough to keeping my promise to my father. He had simply been wrong, an overindulgent father who had convinced me that I had a spectacular voice. I didn't, I could hear myself now. On the rare occasion where I was required to raise my voice it was flat and lifeless. My voice had lost its soul and I began to doubt it had ever had one. La Carlotta, the resident Primadonna often made snide comments about my lack of voice. I knew I deserved them, and I'm sure some part of me was stung by her comments. It was just all so meaningless, I couldn't bring myself to care. My days at the Opera House melded together as time passed, till I could not tell one dreary day from the next. I don't know why Meg put up with me, I was so hopelessly melancholic. Certainly none of the other girls tried to befriend me, only Meg. I don't think she ever realized how grateful I was for that unassuming friendship. How I adored her sweet, dark-haired form and looked forward to the silly little tales she would tell me. She wasn't enough to pull me out of my gloom, but she was all I had and I know I shall always be grateful to her for that.

It was on a night when La Carlotta had made a particular cruel jest about my voice when I first heard my Angel. Her words had been sharp enough to cut through my numb haze and I had entered an old little-used dressing room to be away from everybody and let my tears flow in peace. I sobbed alone, heart-broken at the wretched truth behind her words. I could never keep my promise to my Father, he would never be able to return to me as the Angel of Music. I had never been able to sing, this was the closest I would ever come to being a famous Parisian Opera singer...an unremarkable ballet dancer. I finally cast aside all hope, my foolish little daydream. And then he began to sing to me.

Words will never come close to describing that voice. Even the coarsest of peasants with no taste for music would stop and gape in awe when in the presence of that holiest of voices. It was all around me, throbbing in the air, inside my head. I coulud discern no viable source for this sound, it truly felt as though the voice was singing to me from inside my own skull, not entering through my ears. I was immediately enthralled. I felt my mouth drop open as his voice exploded in my brain, closing my eyes and submitting to the rapture of this amazing voice. Oh how I yearned to be able to sing like that, and yet I think I would have been content to simply listen, eternally surrounded by that heavenly music. I didn't want it to end, yet end it must. The song ended and the Angel spoke to me, in my head as he had sung adn even speaking his voice was pure melody, surrounding me in bliss.

"Child, why do you cry?" the pure compassion in his voice overwhelmed me, and I found myself spilling my soul as I had done to no one before. I shared my grief, all of it, without fear of judgement or derison; I shared my doubts and at last spoke of the emptiness inside. To no one had I told my feelings, it was a relief to share the burden at last. To have somebody and listen, and most importantly, understand. I spoke of my loneliness and he did truly understand, I suppose that should have surprised me, for what reason would an Angel be alone? But I was too completely under his spell to question such an insignificant detail.

From a sympathetic listener and confidante, he became my tutor. For why else would the Angel of Music be sent to me, but to teach me how to use my voice. And I realized, at last that I truly did have a voice. Under his tutelage I was free of all the restraints that had bound me and allowed my voice to soar to previously undiscovered heights. The speed at which I developed was almost disconcerting, I almost couldn't believe that such progress was possible. I found myself living each day for the time when he would visit me, and sing to me.

Over time I realized of course that this was no Angel from heaven come to teach me, and certainly not my father returned from the grave to fulfill a promise. This was most certainly a flesh and blood man. As our lessons progressed, his guard lowered and his voice no longer sounded as though it came from inside my own head, but from someplace inside my walls though I still could not pinpoint presicely where. I did my best not to betray my knowledge of his mortality, for fear of offending him and losing his company entirely. I didn't want him to know that his spell over me had lessened.

Each day I looked forward to the time when he would come and sing to me, I found myself distancing myself from the other girls of the corps de ballet, even more so than I had in my grief. Even Meg, poor, sweet Meg. I spoke to her less and less, thinking as I was, always of my phantom visitor. I could not tell her of him, he would consider it a betrayal I knew...and she would likely think me crazy besides. I couldn't _not_ think of him..thoughts of him, who he was and where he came from, completely consumed mee and if I could share my thoughs with no one, then I would quite simply have to be alone. Unwillingness to divulge my thoughts wasn't my only reason for dissassociating myself, I was also very much afraid of being discovered. Having friends would mean forfeiting the privacy required for my lessons. An over-excited, silly little girl bursting into my room to inform me of some frivolous nonsense about an Opera Ghost or some such...to discover me singing to a man inside the wall...Something of that nature would most certainly mean the end of my nightly lessons.

Each night after we had finished singing I would attempt to draw him into conversation. At first he was resistant, either answering my questions with short, sharp comments or grunts. Or else becoming violently angry at my inolence in questioning him, the Angel of Music. His violent temper scared me, and I worried that one day I would push him too far and he wouldn't come back to me. But after a few agonising nights of silence he would always come back. So I persisted, despite my fears, and slowly but surely a friendship grew between us, a friendship that existed outside of our shared passion for music and my need for someone to listen. He wanted someone to listen to, it was just harder to get him to talk. He wouldn't tell me anything about himself, no secret insight did he divulge. But I believe I came to know him nonetheless, we talked of places and people, and I slowly and subtly drew opinions and feelings out of him that made me wonder all the more about his past.

Of course I could not discuss with him my thoughts and theories about him; but I could disclose my feelings about all the other little things that made up the life of a chorus girl. I would tell him of my encounters with La Carlotta, and am afraid I painted a rather unsavoury picture of the primadonna. I became quite talented at mimicing the various people around the opera house, no one was safe from my satirical wit. Both patron and managers alike were rather amusingly portrayed in my renditions, though for the latter, the managers behaviour was so peculiar, I hardly needed to mimic them. My antics greatly amused my not-so-angelic friend, and I could hear his deep melodic laughter, seeming to float out of my mirror.

I must confess that I started to develop a little crush on my mysterious tutor, imaginging all sorts of fanciful things about him. He was really a handsome prince from some foreign and far-away country. With a deep passion for music and the arts which he could not ignore, and had run away from home, abandoned throne and subjects to pursue his passion. But of course he couldn't step out into the public eye and allow his genius to be recognised without drawing unwanted attention from those whe were undoubtedly searching high and low for their missing prince. So he remained hidden in the shadows, watching and wairing for someone with the right potential for him to impart his gift upon, a mask for him to hide his voice behind. And he found me, and I became his beautiful protoge...

Yes, I know how outrageously unlikely my little fantasy was. But it was _possible_, and far more interesting than my more practical sides suggestion that he was likely just a janitor. Who had discovered an old passageway next to my chamber and liked to sing in private because he was too shy or ugly to try singing on the stage. And being a janitor, would be laughed out of the Opera house the moment he proffessed an interest in auditioning, without so much as a chance to open his mouth. It may have been a more likely story, but it wasn't nearly as romantic, and it was certainly much more fun to daydream about a handsome young prince, than an ugly old janitor.

So I began to make an extra effort with my appearance when I knew he would be coming. I didn't know whether he could see me or not, but I could feel his eyes on me nonetheless. Which, I must say was rather disconcerting while I was getting changed or taking a bath. But, I reassured myself, a handsome prince would be far too much of a gentleman to spy on undressed girls. And if he was indeed just a janitor, with no such compunctions...well...there were other girls with far more interesting "assets" to look at if it came to that. But I didn't think it would, from our conversations together, I got the impression that my tutor was quite the gentleman.


End file.
